I had asked the Captain when the regiment was to advance, and he said probably the next morning, but that the order had not come.  Twice while I was at dinner in the breakfast room, I heard an orderly come in with despatches, but it was not until nine o’clock that the order “sac au dos” at half past ten the next morning—­that was yesterday—­was official, and it was not until nine in the morning that they knew that they were leaving in camions—­which meant that they were really starting in the pursuit, and the American division was to follow them.

The officers had a great breakfast just after nine—­half a dozen courses.  As they did not know when, if ever, they would sit down to a real meal at a table again they made their possibly last one a feast.  As they began just after nine and had to be on the road at half past ten I don’t need to tell you that the cook had no time to clear up after himself.  He had just time—­with his mouth full of food—­to throw his apron on the floor, snatch up his gun and his knapsack and buckle himself into shape as he sprinted up the hill to overtake his company.

As for me—­I threw on a cape and went across the road to the field, where I could see the Grande Route, and the chemin Madame leading to it.  All along the route nationale, as far as I could see with my field-glass, stood the grey camions.  On the chemin Madame the regiment was waiting.  They had stacked their guns and, in groups, with cigarettes between their lips, they chatted quietly, as they waited.  Here and there a bicyclist was sprinting with orders.

Suddenly a whistle sounded.  There was a rattle of arms as the men unstacked their guns and fell into line, then hundreds of hobnailed boots marked time on the hard road, and the 65th swung along to the waiting camions, over the same route I had seen Captain Simpson and the Yorkshire boys take, just before sundown, on that hot September day in 1914.

As I stood watching them all the stupendousness of the times rushed over me that you and I, who have rubbed our noses on historical monuments so often, have chased after emotions on the scenes of past heroism, and applauded mock heroics across the footlights, should be living in days like these, days in which heroism is the common act of every hour.  I cannot help wondering what the future generations are going to say of it all; how far-off times are going to judge us; what is going to stand out in the strong limelight of history?  I know what I think, but that does not help yet.

Do you know that I had a letter from Paris this week which said:  “I was looking over your letters written while we were tied up in London, in August, 1914, and was amused to find that in one of them you had written ’the annoying thing is, that, after this is over, Germany will console herself with the reflection that it took the world to beat her.’” It is coming truer than I believed in those days,—­and then I went back to dishwashing.